


Racing Dogs

by ronandhermy



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:27:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1344103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronandhermy/pseuds/ronandhermy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian finds that sleep escapes him while his mind runs in different directions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Racing Dogs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shamelessfeelsandshit](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=shamelessfeelsandshit).



Sometimes Ian lays awake, his mind racing, and he stares up at the ceiling. He should be asleep, it’s four in the morning, normal people are asleep. Even Mickey’s asleep. Passed out next to the bed like a loyal dog. Like if he lays right there, right beside Ian’s bed, he can stop him from leaving. Ian almost smiles at the thought. He used to do the same thing to Monica when he was younger. That is, until she left him at a bus stop that one time when he was eight. 

Ian’s thoughts are jumping out of his brain but even he knows that loyal dogs can break. Is he broken? Sometimes he feels that way. He came back home but is it really home? Does he belong in this place with these people who see him but don’t see what makes him who he is? Mickey’s the one who’s gotten closest to seeing below the surface, but that’s because Mickey’s has practice in the art of secrets. Concealment.

Concealment. Concealment. Like camouflage. Like a chameleon. Maybe he could make a type of cloth that changes depending on the environment. Well, not make. He didn’t have the science know how for that. But he bet Lip did. Ian could design it. And then they could get enough money to get out of this hellhole.

If it was a hellhole why wasn’t it burning? Sometimes Ian got the urge to torch the place. Pull a Carl and finally unleash the rage that lingered in his every thought. He wanted to hurt something. Someone. He wants to make them feel like he does. Powerless. And lost. And forever bouncing around looking for a place to belong that doesn’t seem to exist. 

His thoughts are a mess. He tries to write them down, to sort them out, but that only helps some of the time. Half the time he ends up ripping out the pages, annoyed at his words and lack of sense that pours out of his pen. Lip gives him strange looks when he brings the notebook out. What does Lip know? Everything’s been handed to him. Fucking golden ticket Gallagher. Ian’s only had things taken from him. 

He’s sinking. He can feel himself sinking down into the dark parts of himself again. He doesn’t like to go there but he can’t seem to find a way out. He doesn’t bring coke into the house. Not after what happened to Liam. Christ, what happened to Fiona? How did she become this fucked up? This Frank like? Was she always like this? 

Mickey gives a weird snuffle breath before rolling over onto his side, his back towards Ian. He’s wrapped up in Ian’s old camo blanket. And Ian hates it now. _Hates hates hates_ that stupid blanket and the stupid army and all those stupid rules and those stupid dreams that almost meant something. He has a sudden urge to rip the blanket off Mickey and replace it with himself. Just cover Mickey like a human blanket. 

But he stops himself. Mickey’s actually asleep and he’s not twitching like he’s having a nightmares. He has so many of them. Quiet ones that he’ll never talk about but Ian knows. Ian knows because he’s haunted by those same demons that sink into the soul. But he doesn’t say anything. Mickey wants to pretend he’s strong just like Ian likes to pretend he’s sane and they both pretend together. Like always. Always pretending. 

Except they didn’t pretend about the important things. Not really.

But thinking about all of that drains Ian of his excess energy, and he lays back and stares at the ceiling. His thoughts won’t stop though. They just keep running in circles and banging into the corners of his skull, reverberating as he tries to sort out where one thought starts and the others end. It’s like a pile of puppies on crack. A pile of dogs. Loyal dogs. Loyal racing dogs that all speak in Mickey’s manner and who have sad blue eyes like the boy who sleeps on the floor. Sad blue eyes that follow Ian no matter where he runs.

And the thoughts continue to race as Ian drifts into the supposed rest of sleep.


End file.
